


The Necessity of Change

by tandemonium



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 13:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12865248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tandemonium/pseuds/tandemonium
Summary: I told you not to wait upWell, I did…Napoleon Solo hits the bars of Soho, London, hoping to use his seductive charms to distract himself from his partner, only to realize that things have changed...





	The Necessity of Change

 

Spies are rarely off duty – it is a rare respite, something to savour, an indulgence if you will. Usually, Napoleon took his leave and assimilated himself into civilian life as effortlessly as he switched between personas during a mission.  

As an agent for U.N.C.L.E, being off duty meant spending a week or 10 days without a mission but not without his partners. Cooped up in a London apartment with Illya and Gaby, Solo was growing increasingly agitated.

Being mission-less meant the part of his brain that was usually strategizing and pre-empting, was free to focus on something else. That was a lot of headspace now being used to focus, much to Napoleon’s despair, almost wholly on Illya Kuryakin.

The Russian was immersed in a book; the usually hard lines of his handsome face were soft with pleasure as he turned another page. It was unusual for Illya to let his guard down like this – Solo had seen it on an occasion or two, but only briefly. Sometimes he wondered if his imagination had created those occasions.

Solo had always been good at recognising his emotions; it was the first and crucial step in mastering them, which in turn was the pre-requisite for being a good thief, and a good spy. Napoleon was a great thief, and second only to Illya as a spy. He was under no illusions about what was going on inside him as he watched Illya, it was pitiful but undeniable… it was  _longing_ …

Yes, that was it. Longing. He longed so much and so hard that it sometimes manifested itself in physical pain. Not searing or unbearable, but persistent. Of course, he ignored it. He was trained to. It was just easier to do when they were on a mission.

“Cowboy!” Illya snapped.

“I’m not here Peril, I’m sitting on a beach in the Caribbean.”  _Peril,_ Solo’s moniker for Illya was apt, being around Illya was becoming increasingly  _perilous_ for him.

He ignored the confused expression on Illya’s face and got to his feet. “I’m going out Peril, don’t wait up.”

 -

London’s West End – the throngs of people and glittering lights were a welcome distraction, for a few moments at least. The pre-U.N.C.L.E Solo would have been in his element. _Before Illya,_ he thought, and then immediately chastised himself for being so melodramatic. Drink in hand, Napoleon scanned the crowd, the battering eyelashes and sweet-scented bodies.

Natalie was strikingly beautiful, soft and instantly smitten. Napoleon was determined. He brought her back to the apartment. 

“Where have you been?’ Illya’s demanded the moment the door swung open, “Oh.”

Natalie held on to Solo’s arm, bewildered – she wasn’t the only one. Solo caught something unrecognisable in Illya’s eyes before the Russian masked it.

He was suddenly very sober. “I told you not to wait up” he attempted a light tone, nonchalance.

“Well, I did” Illya shrugged and walked into his room.

Solo gathered himself, ignored the creaking floorboards in Gaby’s room and lead Natalie into his room.

The soft curves of her body trembled under his strong hands, she moaned loudly, too loudly.

It wasn’t working. His body was unresponsive.

He worked his way down between her smooth legs and pleasured her with his tongue.  _This is ridiculous!_ He thought,  _“she’s a mark, you’re on a mission…”_ his tried, but his cock remained dormant, taunting him. He flicked his tongue firmly on her swollen damp lips and she gasped, grabbed his hair in a surprisingly rough grip.

 _Strong,_ he thought,  _Illya’s strong hands, drawing me in…_

Her sex sounds echoed in the room – Solo somehow ignored them.  _Would Illya call him Cowboy in bed? Or would he call him by his name, soft but deep, solo?_ He felt himself thicken and lengthen,  _Illya, Illya_

Solo entered her gently and her wet heat engulfed him.  _Illya, Illya, Illya, Yes, Yes, Yes…_

 -

Gaby’s disapproving eyes followed him as he saw Natalie to the door the following morning. Given his reputation as a womanizer, Napoleon couldn’t understand why evidence of it suddenly made Gaby look at him as if was guilty of a crime.

He couldn’t understand why he felt guilty.

“Has Illya had breakfast?” he asked, he would make eggs benedict, Illya’s favourite, and watch him devour them.

“None of my business” Gaby replied.

Brows furrowed, Solo turned to her at last, meeting her eyes. “What?”

She sighed and dropped a splash of whiskey into her coffee. “It’s none of my business what you do, or what Illya does, or what you don’t do because you are men, stupid men. Stupid.”

Solo pulled the bottle of whiskey towards him and chuckled, “how much of this have you had?” 

The door to Illya’s room swung open.  _Jesus,_ Solo thought, as Illya appeared, bedhead, shirtless, and walked past them both towards the bathroom. He hadn’t seen Illya like this before; it took Solo a moment or two to recover. Gaby shook her head. He ignored her and got to work making breakfast for himself and Illya.

Watching Illya shovel forkfuls into his mouth, the hard lines of his face smoothing around the edges, gave Solo so much pleasure it left him a little winded. It was bad; he knew this - a problem that would require a solution sooner or later.

“Thank You, Cowboy.” Illya offered him a smile and Solo beamed. He knew Illya respected him as a spy, as an agent capable of thinking his way out of the toughest of predicaments. It was unspoken but clear. Their repartee was always focused around Napoleon’s extravagance and Illya’s seriousness, cultural ideals if you will. It was just teasing.

But his praise for Solo’s cooking was genuine and frequent and Solo basked under it unashamedly.

-

Breakfast was the highlight of the wretched day. Illya spent the rest of it in his room; the door was like an impenetrable barrier between them. Solo was in torment as minutes crept by and nothing worked to occupy his mind.

Something had to give. 

Thankfully, there were only two days left before they had to report back for duty. He was committed to U.N.C.L.E. He understood the rationale behind every mission. But perhaps he should speak to Waverley about the off-duty arrangements.

A door creaked open and Solo looked up, but it was Gaby’s door, not Illya’s. She was dressed magnificently and looked surprised to see him sitting there. “A gentleman caller?” Solo asked, closing the book he had opened to read and wound up re-reading the first paragraph multiple times without knowing what was written. 

“A party in Soho” Gaby replied. Then, “Are you not going out? Surely, somewhere a floozy waits expectantly…”

Solo bristled, “I am free to do as I please Teller, what does it matter?”  _Am I?_ He thought, he was no fool, the events of the night before proved he wasn’t free anymore. He was a prisoner in his own body. Betrayed every time his eyes met Illya’s. Betrayed every time Illya rewarded him with a smile, precious because of how rare it was. Betrayed when there was a soft, smooth, pliant body under him and he was forced to think of the Peril in order to get a reaction!

Gaby’s expression and tone softened, she sighed, “Of course you are. But perhaps some people thought you had changed,” Napoleon noticed her quick glance at Illya’s door. “Perhaps some people thought things were different now.”

She was making no sense, again. He’s left a little bemused when she shakes her head at him, again. “Don’t wait up” she calls over her shoulder.

  _I told you not to wait up_

_Well, I did…_

-

The drinks cabinet is an abomination. It’s stacked with Whiskey, Scotch, Port, Vodka, but they were all cheap. Napoleon grimaced then grabbed the bottle of Vodka and took a deep breath.

Illya opened the door on the third knock and eyed him wearily. Solo held up the bottle of Vodka and grinned.

“This is not vodka it is cheap Capitalist imitation,” Illya declared, retreating back into his room.

Napoleon followed him,  _God I love you!_ He thought, “I know but it’s all we’ve got,” he said, “come on let’s play drinking games.”

Illya stared at him incredulously, “I don’t play games!”

“Liar!” Solo felt giddy all of a sudden, he couldn’t stop himself smiling, “Chess is a game and you played Checkers with Gaby the other day!”

Illya glared at him, “shut up!”

Napoleon chuckled, poured the vodka into the glasses and settled on the sofa, a couple of feet from where Illya was sitting. 

Minutes and hours dissolved. They heard Gaby return. They heard the apartment settle into stillness again. The Vodka bottle was empty. They sat side-by-side looking out at the rooftops of a sleepless London. Solo was pleasantly surprised to see Illya had allowed himself to get drunk. He was relaxed, almost slouched. Solo drunk it all in, willing time to pause.

“Do you sometimes wonder whether you can change?” Illya’s voice was ever so slightly slurred.

Napoleon tensed, remembering Gaby’s words, “do you want me to change?” he asked.

Illya shook his head a few too many times, then cleared his throat, “I don’t mean you as in  _you_ Cowboy” he let out an exasperated huff and Solo wondered why no one made sense anymore. “How do you say it?” Illya asked, sitting up to look at Solo, “One? Oneself? Do you wonder whether one can change oneself? He looked pleased with himself.

“You don’t have to change Peril” Solo wanted to reassure Illya with a caress, his fingers were itching; he balled them into fists instead.

Illya shook his head again, slowly, accompanied by a frustrated almost defeated sigh, “need to change” he insisted, “change these thoughts, ideas… change these desires” the last words were barely above a whisper.

Napoleon’s mouth was dry, he reached for the Vodka but the bottle was empty. He swallowed his spit, opened his mouth, and swallowed again.

“Desires?” he croaked. 

Suddenly, Illya shot to his feet, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Need to sleep. Will feel this in the morning” he looked at his bed. Solo also looked at the bed. His body brimmed with heat. This felt like something, a window opening just a crack….

“W-what kind of desires?” he asked, daringly touching Illya’s elbow.

“It is nothing” Illya took a step out of his reach, body tensing, but Solo’s fingers itched and his body, continuing with its campaign of betrayal, moved towards Illya.

“I think I know about desires” his voice was gentle, placating.

Illya’s laugh was abrupt, shocking. “Of course you do Cowboy, I think the whole building heard your desires last night!” he marched to the door and opened it.

Illya looked shaken but still volatile. Solo repressed the cowardly urge to walk out of the door.

“Why did you wait up last night? Napoleon asked, surprising himself with the question. Illya’s eyes widened in panic, he was too drunk to mask it immediately.

Solo stepped into Illya’s space but Illya avoided eye contact, stubborn as always.

“You don’t need to change” he began,  _this is it,_ he thought, “I have changed Peril, last night… it was a performance”

Illya’s eyes clouded with confusion. “She was beautiful and sexy, and so willing,” he ignored Illya’s scowl and continued, “but she wasn’t you.”

Illya’s eyes went wide, he opened his mouth but before he could speak, Solo seized it in a searing kiss. It was an often-imagined kiss but Solo felt his body melt as the taste and texture of Illya’s mouth and lips exploded his senses.  He was thankful for Illya’s strong hands on his waist, holding him upright. He was thrilled by the delicious noises Illya was making, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. Solo was breathless. He pulled back but Illya wouldn’t allow it so he simply breathed as Illya’s tongue filled his mouth and his big hands pulled him closer.

Even superhuman Russian giants get breathless. When Illya broke the kiss, cheeks flushed and pupils wide with heat, Solo felt more vulnerable than he’d ever been.

“So, why  _did_ you wait up, Peril?” he smirked, teasing.

“Shut up” Illya scowled.

 _Some things don’t need to change,_ Solo thought.


End file.
